


Hard Times in 1773

by Captain_Aesthetics



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23921680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Aesthetics/pseuds/Captain_Aesthetics
Summary: How did Aziraphale and Crowley handle the Boston Tea Party? Badly.Contains my attempt at x-rated hand-holding.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Hard Times in 1773

Crowley and Aziraphale's handling of the Boston Tea party was a disaster. They didn't know much about the ins and outs of British politics, though Crowley did know that if he needed to sow discord in a flash he need only puff out some breath and say "Parliament eh?" and that would send the nearest human on either side of the pond into a frenzy that would spill into their life in hundreds of little sinful ways. 

Aziraphale never wanted to waste tea. 

Freedom was a welcome concept to both. Aziraphale knew humans were happier free than in bondage. Crowley knew free will meant much, much more sinning. 

At the Tea Party they would have been working together and at cross purposes, if they had been there. However they were across the ocean in Austria, enjoying a symphony recital by a 17 year old pianist.

"G minor is something of a change." 

"Which symphony is this now?"

"Oh I've lost track, 25th I think? It seems this prodigy produces a new work every week. Your doing, I assume." 

"No, we had nothing to do with it, too much lightness of the tempo," said Crowley. "But we'll see where he ends up in a few years. We'll gladly take him." 

Someone in front of them turned and scowled. Aziraphale made an apologetic face while Crowley scowled back. The original scowler turned around, more confused and perturbed than before and Crowley congratulated himself on a job well done. Something to tell the home office if they requested a progress report. 

The pianist finished his piece and swept off the piano bench, extending his hand out and bowing with a flourish, the last note still ringing through the hall. The scattered listeners applauded politely though the boy, who liked to call himself WAM on his advertisements, treated it as though it were thunderous. 

"Oh he's going places," said Crowley, approvingly. 

"Hell, from the sound of it." Aziraphale appeared peevish. 

"It won't be so bad. All his friends will be there."

Aziraphale smiled thinly. "Dumplings?" 

"Your gastronomical priorities never ceases to amaze. Alright then, lead the way." 

He had been thinking of the variously filled delicacies they'd had during the end of the Ming dynasty. By comparison the lumps of bread in thick gravy couldn't really compare. The same components were there, more or less. Starch, meat, some sauce though in very different construction and quantity. Far too much sauce, to start with and all deconstructed on a plate. Aziraphale seemed unbothered and did a little wiggle as he tucked his napkin into his collar. Crowley sipped his aperitif and watched the display of an angel savoring each bite of what looked like a pile of mess on his plate. 

"Such infinite variety, what limited space and yet so far apart in manner and so close." 

Aziraphale frowned. "I think that's rather a mix of the Bard's speech." 

"I made him popular, I didn't memorize him. I'm allowed a thought of my own, now and then."

Which was partially why they were now on opposite sides. They both thought that and tiptoed away from saying it aloud. 

"A little wine for the road?" offered Crowley. 

"I don't believe we're allowed drinks to go." 

"Allowed?" Crowley said with an arched eyebrow. He snapped his fingers and then opened his coat. Bottles clinked inside an expansive inner pocket. 

"Naughty," said Aziraphale with a twinkle in his eye. "You will of course leave a tip." 

"If you insist, angel."

He had a habit of calling Aziraphale that when he was being his least angelic. Coincidentally, those were the times Crowley liked him the most. Aziraphale assumed it was a veiled rebuke. Crowley assumed his affection was unwelcome and stopped for a while, until the pet name slipped out again. 

Two presumably drunk men sitting on the edge of a bridge across the river was not a sight any human would stop twice for, even if one was wearing colored spectacles at night. And they were a bit drunk, deciding it would be fun to allow themselves to be. 

"Are there really no musicians in heaven?" said Aziraphale, no more defiance in his voice, only resignation. 

"Not none. You might have got von Bingen. Haven't seen her around."

"Oh she was LOVELY," said Aziraphale, brightening. "I shall have to look her up next time I’m in office." 

"Bit old fashioned but that's the sort of thing your lot like. These new musicians, they're all ours."

"Must you Crowley? You could, you know, ease up on them." 

"Oh that's the beauty. The really good ones, the truly debauched, are all on their own. And the jealousy they incite in others. Phew!" He gestured widely with both arms, swaying deeply. Aziraphale kept a close eye on him. "That pianist chap. Undeniable talent. Impossible to write off. Nothing makes humans hate more than that. I don't have to lift a finger."

"Seems a bit unfair. If they're so naturally evil I have to do all the work." 

"I wouldn't say naturally. It's just easier for them. And your successes count for more, so you've got that going for you. I’ve got to work constantly, never get a day off for dumplings, no matter what form they take." 

"But the occasional bottle of wine." 

"Or two!" Crowley said delightedly before he swung forward in violent exuberance and Aziraphale's hand shot out, ready to restrain him from falling. 

On a lifespan that stretched back to the beginning of consciousness and forward until no foreseeable end, individual moments tended not to have much meaning. It was a very human, very glandular trait to have any kind of response to the brush of fingers: how delicate each felt individually, how strong as a unit. Crowley thought the skin felt thinnest there, before remembering that their skin was merely a construct, an illusion. That one could pass through the other or, if they preferred, pause in the middle and stay there, not one inside the other, as that would imply one in and one out but rather two beings inhabiting one space equally, ceasing to remain two, their borders merge into one swirling collection of stars and memory. They could do that. Or they could retain boundaries and feel the way their fingers shook with anticipation, nervousness, and awe at trying something new and much desired. That was just their hands.  


Within an instant that was a fraction of a fraction of their lives, diminished with each passing minute, Crowley had righted himself and Aziraphale pulled his hand away. Crowley cleared his throat, finding himself unfortunately sober. While being able to will himself so was often a benefit sometimes he wished he had reason to wallow a few hours. He made several expressions with his lips approximating disapproval. 

"Quite safe. A dunking in the river might do me good." 

"Well, the night is still young." They smiled at each other, each a bit embarrassed. “I would suggest a coffee but the Turks are at war with the Russians currently.”

“So?”

“So you can’t get good coffee outside of Turkey. I suppose I could make some tea, I have to drop these books off.” He opened his coat. Inside his wine-smuggling pocket were several books and papers in different languages. Definitely first editions if not manuscripts. 

“Have you been carrying that around all day?” 

“This one I just picked up, it’s only just been published at a small press in Hamburg, I had to pop by.” 

“Oh naturally, lead the way then.” 

Once they were at his flat Aziraphale put the kettle on. Besides coming dangerously close to using his miracle allocation for the day there was something nice about the ritual of putting on a cup of tea, as it also gave him something to do without thinking about Crowley roaming about his living room. His library was becoming substantial and the small space had become quite cramped. Aziraphale was very careful with the fire, kicking loose papers away from the grate. Crowley came over to help, kind enough to blow some dust off the second teacup. 

“I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve had guests,” said Aziraphale. He blew some dust off of one of his books. “Or been here myself. Lots to see.” 

“Yes, things are brewing. France in particular seems keen as a tinderbox, will have to keep a close eye on that.” 

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale, whose eyes had gone a bit dreamy. 

“Have you noticed it too? Say, you don’t think… it’s not…”

“What? Oh. Oh no, it’s far too soon for the big one.” 

“Yes that’s what I thought,” said Crowley, not completely convinced. “But you know once they get an idea in their heads.” 

“Yes you’re right.” The incident with the flood was still quite fresh. “But the son was only…” He blew air out his cheeks as he counted. “Millenia and a half ago. Why he’s only settling in.” 

The kettle began to whistle. Aziraphale poured the boiling water over the tea as Crowley brought over one of the squashier chairs. He sank down deeply and took his glasses off, watching Aziraphale fuss over the tea set, his hands clasped in front of his body as he waited for the tea leaves to brew. He looked so content at the idea of imminent tea. That was all he needed wasn’t it? A good book, a strong cup of tea, a nice place to sit.

And his hands, one clasped in the other. 

“Milk? Sugar?” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley cleared his throat. “I’ll take it black, thanks.”

Aziraphale brought his cup over and if their hands brushed during the transfer it was only because Crowley didn’t want to spill on any of the books. 

“You can’t have read these all,” he said. 

“Of course, it’s a curated collection. I take a month off here and there to read any strays.” 

“What happens when you’re done with them?”

“”Why they go on the shelf.” 

“Forever. Covetousness, angel.” Crowley grinned. 

“Well if you must know, I’ve been thinking of opening a shop. Where people might buy and, more importantly, sell their gently used books.”

“Yet you would have to occasionally open the shop up to people.” 

“That is part of the appeal. It’s why we’re here, isn't it?” 

“True. Though after a few thousand millennia I don’t see much difference. The means may change but the ways… Cave paintings aren’t so different from chapel murals, only who pays for the paint.” 

“Are you getting bored Crowley?”

“Maybe!” He got up and started roaming around the room “Might find another galaxy and take a nap for a century or two. You’re welcome to come with.” 

“Oh. Oh I don’t think I could. That’s a rather long vacation for me to go unnoticed. Head office will start to look around.” 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It was a nice thought though.” And with that he sat down hard on the floor in front of Aziraphale’s chair. He leaned against the chair leg and a slight, burning hot, sliver of Aziraphale’s shin. Seconds had never lasted so long. Then a gentle hand rested at the top of his head. 

“I never did understand how you got your hair into these rolls,” said Aziraphale softly. 

“Oh I just-” Crowley made a spinning gesture. “-do it. No trouble at all.” So if Aziraphale wanted to keep touching them he could. He did so and Crowley turned so his cheek was resting on Aziraphale’s knee as it felt like each strand of his hair was stroked, counted, filed away in a memory. 

A slight shift in the chair was enough to dislodge him and he sat up straight as Aziraphale did. 

“Well.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded slightly strangled. “Tea’s gotten cold. You’ve given me lots to think about with naps, er, and shops and books and so on. It was ever so good to see you.” 

Crowley stood and straightened his clothes but not his hair. He would leave it disheveled for a while, as a testament. “We’ll have to pop back to Austria in a decade or so, see if that Wolfgang’s made anything of himself.” 

“Sounds lovely.”

Crowley smiled and gave the angel a wink. “It’s a date.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a charity drive. clotpoleofthelord requested ineffeable husbands do Boston Tea Party but added "Any rating. Or something else! Whatever strikes your fancy" and I took that as license to ill.


End file.
